Andrew Taylor 2-Book Collection: The American Boy, The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor
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Alas, Mr Carswall was doomed to disappointment. The Ruispidges’ pews were empty.
When we returned to the mansion, the boys were in tearing spirits, partly from the holiday and partly from want of exercise. They fell in willingly enough when I proposed a walk.
“You should take Mr Shield to see our ruined abbey,” Miss Carswall suggested, looking up from her bureau; though it was Sunday, she was at work on her accounts. “It is a vastly romantic spot, and one generally sees cowled figures flitting from pillar to pillar.”
She bent her head over her account book. She and I had not spoken in private since what had passed between us in the church porch on Christmas Day. I did not know what to think about her feelings, or indeed about my own. I was aware that we had both behaved improperly, yet somehow I contrived not to dwell on that side of the matter.
“Yes, sir,” put in Charlie, “please let us go to the abbey. Edgar, they say the monks buried treasure there.”
Mrs Frant, who had been writing a letter at a table in the window, looked up at this. “Don’t fill Edgar’s head with such nonsense, Charlie. It is only a foolish story that country people tell.”
I looked at her, sitting in the cold winter sunlight, and said, “Are the ruins extensive, ma’am?”
“I have not seen them, Mr Shield. My cousin will tell you.”
“You must prepare to be disappointed,” Miss Carswall said. “A few stones, that is all. It was not even a true abbey. The Rector told Papa that all the land around here was owned by the monks at Flaxern Magna, which is down by the river. He believes that our little ruins mark the site of one of the monks’ outlying farms. Papa was most put out. He wanted a veritable abbey, not a tumbledown farmhouse.”
“But the monks were there. So I expect there are ghosts,” Charlie said, with the air of one dangling a further bait. “And treasure. It’s more likely they’d hide it there than in the abbey, isn’t it? That’s the first place people would look.”
Mrs Frant smiled at him. “When the park was laid out, I believe a few silver pennies were found among the foundations. Perhaps that may be the origin of the story of treasure. Country people are very credulous.”
“Where were they found?”
She busied herself in folding her letter. “I don’t know, Charlie.”
“Then who told you about the silver? I can ask him if he knows where it was dug up.”
“You cannot ask him, I’m afraid. It was your papa.” She looked at her son. “When he was a little boy he lived here – not in this house, in the old one that was here before. His grandpapa laid out the park. You can see his name on the obelisk.”
“We lived here? Monkshill was ours?”
Mrs Frant coloured. “It was never ours, my love. Your grandpapa sold the property to Mr Cranmere many years ago.”
Charlie leaned on the back of her chair and had the wit to change the subject. “Come out with us, Mama. You can show us where the treasure might have been found.”
“There was no treasure,” she said.
“But there was money,” Miss Carswall said. “Silver coins. Is not that treasure?”
Mrs Frant laughed, and so did we all. “I suppose it is.”
“Well then,” Charlie said. “There may be more. We won’t find it if we don’t look.”
Mrs Frant glanced out of the window, at the silver expanse of the park lying beneath the hard blue dome of the sky. “I believe it would do me good to take the air. Will you join us, Flora?”
Miss Carswall said she would prefer to sit by the fire. I tried to catch her eye but she had returned to her figures.
A quarter of an hour later, the boys were running along the path while Mrs Frant and I followed at a more sedate pace. We walked quickly, however, because of the cold. The air brought spots of colour into Mrs Frant’s usually pale cheeks. We inspected the obelisk, found the inscription that recorded the virtues of Charlie’s great-grandfather, and took a path leading eastward into a shallow valley. The boys scampered ahead, and were soon out of earshot. By this time, any embarrassment caused by the mention of Mr Frant had been entirely dissipated.
“I hope you do not find us too dull,” Mrs Frant said. “You must be used to a deal of noise and bustle, I daresay. Charlie tells me that you lived in London before you entered Mr Bransby’s school, and that before that you were a soldier.”
“All the more reason why I should relish the calm of the countryside.”
“Perhaps.” She darted a glance at me. “My father served in the army too. Colonel Francis Marpool – I do not suppose you knew him?”
“No. I enlisted in the army only in 1815. As a private soldier.”
“You fought at Waterloo?”
“I was wounded there, ma’am.”
She gave me a look of admiration that filled me with shame.
I said, “I did not fire a single shot, however. I was wounded at an early stage of the battle, and then had a horse fall beside me, which prevented me from moving. I was a most inglorious soldier.”
“I honour your frankness, Mr Shield,” she said. “Had I been a man, and on the field of battle, I’m sure I should have been terrified.”
“To be blunt, I was terrified.”
She laughed as though I had said something wonderfully witty. “That merely confirms me in my opinion that you are a man of sense. You did not run away: that is glory enough, surely?”
“I could not run away. A dead horse on top of oneself is a powerful argument against motion of any sort.”
“Then we must be thankful that Providence afforded you its protection. Even in the form of a dead horse.” She pointed to the crest of a low hill we were ascending. “When we reach the top, we shall see the ruins below.”
The boys appeared on the skyline as they reached the brow of the declivity. Whooping like a pair of savages, they ran down the far side.
Mrs Frant and I reached the summit. The ground sloped down to a little valley, on the floor of which were the remains of several stone walls. Some way beyond these scanty signs of habitation was a line of palings, which marked part of the demesne’s northern boundary. The grey roofs of a substantial cottage were visible on the other side of the fencing.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Frant, pressing her hand into her side. “They might kill themselves!”
She ran down the hill. The boys were swarming like monkeys up the tallest of the few remaining walls of the ruin, which at its highest point was no more than eight feet above the ground.
“Charlie!” she cried. “Be careful!”
Charlie ignored her. Edgar, less accustomed to Mrs Frant’s nervous disposition, paused in his climb and looked over his shoulder.
Her foot caught on a tuft of grass and she stumbled.
“Mrs Frant!” I cried.
She regained her balance, and ran on.
From the ruins came the sound of a shout. I tore my eyes away from her. Charlie was sitting astride the wall at its topmost point, bellowing with the full strength of his lungs. His words were inaudible, but his agitation was unmistakable. An instant later, I saw Edgar, a crumpled figure on the ground below.
I thundered like a cavalry charge down the slope to the ruins, passing Mrs Frant on the way. In a moment I was bending over Edgar. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. A procession of potential calamities flocked through my mind, ranging from the loss of my position to the boy’s death.
Charlie landed beside